


The Violet Hour

by callunavulgari



Series: Dark Month Collection [29]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Dark, Dark Magic, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Horror, Non-Consensual, Pregnancy, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan le Fay is many things. She is cleverer than her peers by far, so much more than the pretty face her father makes her out to be. She is, in fact, beautiful—inky dark hair that spills to her waist, pale green eyes that sometimes look grey in dim lighting, unblemished skin the exact color of porcelain that Maybelline longs to use in their commercials. She likes honey and milk in her tea and can’t stand curry, and while she is mostly blind to sexuality she does have a weakness for long-legged women.</p><p>She is not, however, aware of her previous lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Violet Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emanga](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Emanga).



> Dark Month, Day 4. Emanga wanted Ruby/Morgana, General Dark, demon summoning. I... had some Morgana feels so Ruby only really came in at the end, and uh, the whole thing is a little darker than I wanted, but yeah.

Morgan le Fay is many things. She is cleverer than her peers by far, so much more than the pretty face her father makes her out to be. She is, in fact, beautiful—inky dark hair that spills to her waist, pale green eyes that sometimes look grey in dim lighting, unblemished skin the exact color of porcelein that Maybelline longs to use in their commercials. She likes honey and milk in her tea and can’t stand curry, and while she is mostly blind to sexuality she does have a weakness for long-legged women.   
  
She is not, however, aware of her previous lives.   
  
Often she has dreams of the clinking of steel and the green leaves of unfamiliar trees, but the images and sounds are gone before she wakes.   
  
Her powers, dim now, lie dormant beneath her porcelain-like skin, and the only thing that reminds her of her old life at all is a flicker of recognition whenever she passes the homeless man next to the Thames.   
  
Morgan is not a princess, though her family is wealthy enough. Her brother is a bit of a brute, but she’s fond of him nevertheless, blonde hair and a bad attitude never quite enough to hide the spark of kindness deep within.  
  
She went to university in Cardiff and when she left she took a few things with her: knowledge, an addiction to nicotine, and a habit of keeping her nails short, because you never know when you’re going to go home with some pretty little thing.  
  
She also took home a book that her roommate had left behind.   
  
Glinda ‘the good witch’ as people laughingly took to calling her was always a bit of a loner. She only talked to Morgan if she had to and mostly studied quietly in their room, haunting female vocals occasionally making it past her headphones. They didn’t talk, but she didn’t mind when Morgan brought girls home, just gave her a blank look before wandering out to the study room down the hall.  
  
The wiccan thing never really bothered Morgan much; after all, she didn’t make it a habit to judge people based on their spiritual beliefs.  
  
She never learned that Glinda really was a witch, good or bad, until she took a book home with her on a whim. It was an old thing—the kind of book that seems permanently dusty until you run your fingers over the thick leather cover—its pages covered in scrawling latin. There were translations in the margins, written in a cramped, spidery hand—ink smudged here and there.  
  
The translations were odd—strange ingredients and even stranger words; what she thought to be an error in translation until she breathed one of the words into the quiet humidity of her bedroom. The orchid beside her bed turned into a swaying, hissing snake, and she screamed so loudly that her brother came tearing into her room, brandishing a frying pan like a weapon.  
  
The snake met a rather unhappy end, Arthur beating at it until it was just a smear in her carpet. She would have felt bad, but her father’s secretary told them that the snake had been a puff adder, and that it was astonishingly good luck that none of them had been bitten.  
  
“But how did it get here?” he wanted to know, old wizened brow crinkled up in confusion.  
  
She laughed, shakily, and made some remark about how it might have escaped from a zoo.   
  
Gaius gave her a flat, assessing look, but didn’t disagree.  
  
She did not sleep well that night.  
  
.  
  
As it turned out, magic was just as addictive as cigarettes. More so, really. It was like injecting something into her veins, power and wonder all at once. She spent long, lazy days studying the spell book in her room—carefully trying out spells once she knew for certain that they were safe. She didn’t want a repeat of the flower turned snake.  
  
Once she’d mastered that book, she took to the internet—trolling through sketchy sites about covens and the theory about various lore. It took her a fair while to sort through all the junk, but when she finally found something worthwhile, she had a number, and access to a library.  
  
.  
  
Her powers were still dull compared to what they once were, but she practiced until they were shiny and new again—until she had the strength to perform a sleeping spell on the entire estate. She wandered the hallways, finding servants sleeping at their posts, cooks sleeping next to stoves.   
  
(She turned the stoves off, of course. Wouldn’t want the house to catch fire.)  
  
She grinned and took her leave, going out to some bar and bringing some curly haired, dark skinned girl home with her, where, to her delight, everyone was still asleep.  
  
“Are you sure we can do this here?” Gwen asked her, supple thighs wrapped around Morgan’s hips. She let out a soft moan when Morgan shifted, getting the very tip of the dildo inside—teasing, holding her open—before thrusting the rest of the way in.   
  
So pretty, the way her mouth looked, caught open, lips shiny and wet on a pleased sigh.  
  
Morgan pressed a kiss between her breasts, moving between her legs, and looked to where her brother was sleeping on the loveseat not even ten steps away.  
  
“I’m sure,” she breathed, kissing the disbelieving pucker of Gwen’s lips. “Don’t worry. He won’t wake.”  
  
.  
  
“You have to be careful, Morgana,” the homeless man next to the Thames told her, his blue eyes so very ancient looking.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, walking faster until he was out of sight.  
  
.  
  
The addiction was sweet at first—little things like making her room clean itself, putting the estate to sleep when she wanted to get laid. Her magic was new and innocent, shaped by her spells and what she did with them.  
  
The first time she summoned an imp, her magic darkened like a bruise—like she’d pressed too hard.  
  
The time after that, she forced her way into someone’s mind, leaving her fingerprints there like spilt wax.   
  
The bruise spread.  
  
.  
  
She got the book from a seller online, the man selling oddities and antiques that he didn’t understand well enough to truly gauge their value. It arrived on a sunday late in October, while the rain poured outside.   
  
Morgan took it inside with her, amused when she unwrapped it to find that though the packaging was soaked through, the book inside was undamaged.  
  
She left the book upstairs when she went down for dinner, and when she returned it was open to a page somewhere toward the end of the book—a page that spoke of demons and how to call them.  
  
.  
  
“What’s happened to you, Morgan?” Arthur asked her one night, when they were alone in the library, just them, scotch, and a very particular book in her lap.  
  
Something unfurled in her gut, something strange and dark, something new.   
  
It whispered to her.   
  
_Look how beautiful he is—how concerned he is for you. How his hair curls, sparking gold in the candlelight._   
  
_Wouldn’t it be nice?_ the darkness whispered. _You could have him, you know, and he wouldn’t even think to protest._  
  
She smiled, taking a sip of scotch and feeling it burn down her throat even as she set the book aside, sliding to her feet. She padded over to him on bare feet, drunk on the power crackling beneath her skin, and slid smoothly into his lap.  
  
He blinked at her, startled, but not worried yet. “Morgan?” he whispered, hands coming up to frame her hips, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. “What are you doing?”  
  
She soothed him, clicking her tongue and kissing him soft and sweet, like honey—shoving her silken nightgown up her belly and wrenching his zipper down as the darkness spread to him, their lips sliding wetly together.  
  
It didn’t take long to get him hard, her magic inside of him and her hand wrapped tight around his cock.  
  
He threw his head back and moaned when she slid down onto him, and she laughed, biting at his neck and hitching her hips.   
  
“Dearest brother mine,” she whispered, moving over him as he whimpered beneath her, hips twitching helplessly up to meet hers.   
  
The darkness grew, the bruise spread, and something whispered in the back of her mind, incessant and insistent. _Yes, yes, this is how it’s supposed to be. Fate doesn’t make mistakes. History always repeats itself._  
  
When he came, head thrown back, so deep inside her, he whispered a name that was both hers and not hers—one she had lost long ago.  
  
 _Our dark lady_ , the quiet whispered to her, and she muffled her laughter into her brother’s jaw.  
  
.  
  
The pregnancy was difficult until she learned that the babe growing inside her quieted at the touch of her magic. After that, it was easy, her singing songs to her swelling belly as she convinced the magic to swell with it—to ebb and ease like waves against the little ball of life inside her.  
  
“Who did this to you?” her father hissed at dinner, almost every night.  
  
He’d already tried to convince her to get rid of it. When that hadn’t worked, he’d insisted to know the child’s true parentage, presumably so he could sue it’s father into an early grave.   
  
She laughed at him, watching Arthur shift next to him, and didn’t answer.  
  
Her brother wouldn’t remember their night together for some time, but the loss of his memory didn’t change the way he never fully looked at her now, shying away whenever she tried to touch him.  
  
She excused herself early, rubbing her belly in time to the hands of the clock.  
  
.  
  
She doesn’t summon a demon properly until she is seven months pregnant, her magic just as bloated and anxious as she is.   
  
She draws the pentagram carefully, swollen belly brushing the floor as she crawls around its edges, double checking to make sure everything is perfect.  
  
She doesn’t say the words, _she sings them_.  
  
The creature is beautiful, nothing like she’d expected. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a wide, plush mouth that makes her think of what it would look like between her legs. She lets her lust show in her eyes, unafraid as she steps into the devil’s trap with it. It laughs at her, fluttering it’s eyes and saying in a low, sultry voice, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Morgana Pendragon?”   
  
She blinks at it, her belly taking up the space between them—just barely brushing the demon’s stomach.  
  
“That isn’t my name,” she says, and it laughs at her again.  
  
“That will always be your name,” it says. “Now, what can I do for you, milady?”  
  
.  
  
She makes the demon touch her, though that was not her original plan. She forces its head between her thighs and makes it lick at her swollen cunt until she can’t force another orgasm out of herself. Then she slides her hands between the demon’s thighs, fingers slip-sliding in wet, velvety warmth as it sucks kisses into her neck.  
  
“What is the child’s name to be?” it asks her in the darkness, pretty mouth curved into a cruel smirk. “I’ll betcha I know.”  
  
She thinks about it for a moment, but there’s that same darkness, whispering in her ears.  
  
“Mordred,” she purrs, and the demon laughs and laughs.  
  
.  
  
“What happened to you, Morgana?” the homeless man by the Thames asks her helplessly, a distant memory of a lifetime gone by caught in his voice.  
  
She turns away from him, doesn’t run, doesn’t hide, just walks away.  
  
.  
  
When the baby is born, Ruby is by her side, clenching tight to her hand as she squeezes the boy out of her, bit by bit. The birth isn’t what calls the memories up—when she’d died before, she’d never had any children—no, it isn’t the birth that makes her remember, but her son’s eyes staring up at her. He doesn’t squall, such a good baby, just sits there staring at her covered in gore.   
  
Arthur is in the lobby, and she hadn’t even let Uther come that far.   
  
Ruby coos down at him, offering her finger for him to suck on before he’s even had the chance to go for Morgan’s teat.   
  
“No,” Morgana whispers, removing the finger from Mordred’s mouth and bringing it to her own. She bites down, hard, and smiles cruelly when Ruby hisses in pain.   
  
The blood is shiny and dark, so dark it may as well be black. She licks her lips, then moves Ruby’s finger back to Mordred’s mouth. He sucks happily, greedily, such a good baby.  
  
“There,” she whispers, her magic tickling inside her, bruised all over like black tar. “That’s better.”  
  



End file.
